Lay Down The Long Goodnight
by Just A. Dora
Summary: Set after the events of S2. On Leaving the Holy Land, Guy's grief overwhelms him to the point of madness. His hold on reality takes the shape of a familiar, merciful woman, who has never seen the sea.
1. Chapter 1

Fandom: Robin Hood (BBC)

Diclaimer: Own nada.

Author's Notes: A small multi-chaptered fic from a Guy (sometimes vasey) POV. Set after S2, will continue into S3.

**Lay Down  
(The Long Goodnight)  
Chapter One**

The sun set over the Holy Land, bleeding its amber glow out to sea, and over the vessel that carried the Sheriff back to wetter, safer climes. Vasey watched the tide take him away, gnashing his teeth against the clotted mess of his failure. From below deck, the scraping, pacing and wailing of Gisborne was aggravatingly audible. The crew aboard deck stayed eerily silent, unable to raise the atmosphere above the tune of Gisborne's grief. Vasey snarled at the sea spray, and paced.  
The big booby had thrown himself headfirst into the abyss, there was little Vasey could do now but cultivate that darkness; nourish it as a new lifeline for Gisborne. Now that he'd gutted his last chance of deliverance.  
A short distance from his foot, the wooden deck planks splintered upwards, providing a better outlet for the huffing and puffing of the big sad wolf below.  
Spitting sharply, Vasey headed below deck, having had more than enough of this idiocy.  
"Boatswain!" he roared. "Inform me if there's any change."  
Once the Sheriff was down the ladder and out of earshot, the boatswain shrugged to the nearest deckhand and asked quizzically, "What sort of change is he expecting?"

The iron crate that Guy heaved upwards above his head in an impotent fury lodged itself in the upper ceiling of the ship, splitting planks and spraying splinters. He dislodged the crate by pulling at its lopped handles, and the metal lump came crashing down above his head. He crumpled to his knees, the fingers of one hand smashed beneath the crate. He pulled again at the crate, attacking the situation so blindly that the weight on his digits doubled. Panting at the struggle and the pain he could only dimly register, he noticed light flood the wrecked cabin, and the Sheriff's short, cloaked form stamp forward.  
He slammed the door shut, bolted it, and the room returned to its former grey.  
"Get up you great waste!" the Sheriff shrieked.

Guy looked up, eyes hooded, not so much in defiance as discovery: another target. The two men locked gazes and the sheriff recognised some lingering shadows of treachery in his eyes. With a grimace he put out one well placed foot and rammed it into Gisborne's face.  
The man flung back heavily, his head cracking at the contact with the hull and his arm dislodging from the iron weight and falling to his side at an unnatural angle. He was out cold, and seemed grateful for it.  
Vasey straightened his shoulders, his usual spirit returning for a moment.  
Curiously, Gisborne's expression shifted from one if blank oblivion, to something vague, approaching fear, and misery. Uninterested, and happy for the peace, Vasey left the cabin.

Guy stood by the bow after dusk, his hands tight around the railing. The Sheriff's snores were the one noise disturbing his peace as they floated through the splintered deck.  
"You should use a splint on those," she reprimanded him brightly. He felt her warm hand on his cold one, gently ease his clench from the railing and examine the injuries. He looked at her calmly, holding a breath.  
"They'll heal," he replied finally.  
"But they might heal crookedly," she argued. "Bandage them around small splints—this one…and this one. And don't use them until they've fully healed." She looked up at him expectantly, wheedling.  
He looked down at the hand. His right hand, his sword hand. It was mottled purple and red. The knuckles were split and blood encrusted. The palm was cold.

He looked up at her. He could feel the immeasurable distance between them though she stood right beside him, viewing the glittering ocean. There was empty space where she stood, stagnant air where she took in great salty lungfuls in relish.  
"I was kept below deck for the journey here," she told him. "I didn't see it."  
"The sky?"  
"The ocean. I've never seen it before."  
He watched her watch the water. "Is it how you thought it would be?"  
She smiled blithely, answerless. Empty space.  
An ache began in his forearm, the twisted arm being brought forcibly to his attention. He looked up, blinking blearily, and saw the cracked hole above him. Through it, he glimpsed one star burning, tiny and distant, and a swish of skirt flying in the wind. Whether white or blood red he didn't decide.

Vasey came into the cabin later in a significantly better mood. He'd been plotting. His plans to regain power after this disaster were fresh and alive. He took off his fur and regarded Gisborne who was sitting on the opposite bed mat with his back to him.  
"Take heart, Gisborne," he said softly, undressing. "We have a head start on Hood, if he ever comes back at all, that is, and I can fantasise," he groaned, tugging off one boot, "and on our return to England, we'll have a day or so to catch our breath. And then we shall see how England's fate is to be decided. And then we shall see."  
Greedily content with his optimism and his plots, he came up behind Gisborne, and stopped. Looking down over the unresponsive shoulder, he saw Guy obediently bandaging his broken fingers, slowly, with small, roughly fashioned splints.  
Vasey frowned with his lips pursed, then stepped backwards. He rolled his eyes, lay down on the thin mat, and did not comment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lay Down  
(The Long Goodnight)  
Chapter Two**

Earlier on the voyage, Guy had remained still long enough to come to the backstabbing conclusion that his body imagined itself seasick. Rather than a distraction to the churning guilt in his gut, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. He launched his stomach overboard in great gasping retches.  
She rubbed his back soothingly. He could hear the Sheriff further off behind him, complaining of the stink carried over the deck.  
"Drink some water," she recommended.  
He spat, ridding his mouth of the taste. "Don't issue me any more orders," he wheezed.  
"I wouldn't dream of telling you to do anything you didn't want to do."  
He wrenched himself out of her reach, the movement of which added horribly to his dizziness. He turned to her, his face a demonic mask the like of which would have scared the living spirit out of a weaker woman.  
"Or a livelier one," she added impiously. She held his stare for a long moment.  
"That confirms it, doesn't it?" she said, amused. "I know what you're thinking, therefore I'm not really here." He stared at her, unable to voice his agreement. It seemed that saying what he ought to say was something he had also lost overboard.  
She stepped closer to him. "But I'm always here," she whispered conspiratorially, tracing her fingers over his cheek to his temple. "Right here. Safe, and always."  
Forlornly, he let her pet him into submission, easing himself to the deck floor.  
"Marian," he whimpered piteously.  
"Always," she said again, cutting off all further denials with a kiss.

The evening on which the ship docked in England was welcomingly grey and drizzly. Guy was no better for the rest period he'd had aboard ship. His arrogance had diminished but his rigid self-control had reasserted itself. Yet his continuing silences kept the Sheriff watchful. And the boatswain had his own ideas about what was troubling Lord Gisborne. He's seen cabin fever and seasickness and superstitious fear bring down the hardiest of voyagers. This was an impressive compound of the three.

The carriage journey back to Nottingham was lengthened by its unrewarding conversational exchanges. Vasey would comment and Guy would nod, or shrug. Vasey could smell the stale wine on Guy's breath, and lost patience with his lackey. He fell to watching the scenery, tapping the side of the carriage and humming erratically. Gisborne continued staring downwards, always in collected, unshared thoughts.  
She joined in the Sheriff's tune lightly, her cheek on Guy's shoulder.  
"I learnt this in the nursery," she whispered, grinning at the thought. "Do you suppose his mother sung it to him?"  
Guy looked upwards briefly. The Sheriff was conducting with his finger, his eyes squinting at his own imaginings, and he hadn't heard her.  
"It's about a little boy, running alone on the heath when his mother wants him home," she said close to his ear, then hummed the rest of the tune in time with the Sheriff.  
_"Run away little lad.  
Sunshine...da da da… sun is warm,  
One da da da-da…lad,  
Da da mother won't be sad,  
If you da da through corn."_  
He became aware that hers was the only voice he could hear, singing that nonsense rhyme with half the words missing. The Sheriff's head lolled back, and his breathing had slowed.  
"The corn hides you," she explained dreamily. "It's a sunny colour. Your mother will trust you to its protection." She shifted her cheek on his shoulder. He looked down at her head, not understanding.  
"My mother?" he questioned, voice barely above a whisper. He glanced again at the sleeping lord. "Do you mean him?"  
She smiled patiently, with some amusement.  
"Do you mean you?"  
"Guy, Guy," she said mockingly. "Who's looking after you now?"  
The guards at the castle gates escorted the carriage through with little more than a hand wave, once the guard had seen the Sheriff snoring inside.  
"You're not real," Guy insisted as the carriage covered the short distance to the steps.  
She raised an eyebrow. "So who does that leave you with?"  
He scowled, breathing heavily through his nose.  
"My Lord!" he said suddenly. The Sheriff jerked awake.  
"Oh, are we back?" he grunted. "Good."  
Guy exited the carriage, looking disturbed.  
Vasey sat in the otherwise empty vehicle for a long, contemplative moment. Gisborne, it seemed, had left his sanity lying somewhere among those sandy, bloodstained streets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lay Down  
(The Long Goodnight)  
Chapter Three**

The apparition followed him back to Locksley. He rode the stallion he'd left in the care of the castle stables—noting he hadn't been groomed for some days, but saying nothing about it for weariness. He felt her behind him, one hand curled around to his abdomen, the other resting on his shoulder.

"How does your hand feel?" she asked.

He refused to answer, but flexed the bandaged limb to see for himself. It still ached something terrible.

"It would heal faster if you rested it," she admonished.

"I'll just sleep in the forest then, until I can ride, shall I?" he muttered dully.

He heard her little 'Hmm' of pleasure. "So you are still talking to me, then?"

Immediately he fell silent.

"It might be cosy to sleep in the forest," she went on cheekily, in that wheedling way he remembered. Like a fond stab in the back.

"So tell me where the outlaws' camp is. I can stop there for the night."

"And if I told you, you'd have to believe I was real, wouldn't you? Because I'd know something you don't."

Exactly. He grimaced.

"So where is it?" he said carefully.

"Oh, Guy," she sighed. "Let's go home."

Barely hesitating, he hurried on in a gallop, contemplating…as the hooves beat mercilessly on the earthy floor and the woman behind him did not tighten her grip for needed anchorage…just what she meant when she said 'home'.

Cries of "My lord!" and "My God!" greeted him as he rode through the gates and on into Locksley. The greetings were not the warmest. He imagined instead his back and abdomen being warmed by her body heat. The enveloping, seductive heat of a woman, softly pressed and pliable in his care. His possession. The heat surrounded him, suffusing the air, fogging his sight and his hearing. He needed nothing else except the rocking, comforting mist of her warming, rocking, caring hold.

A slice of pain skirted around his inner thigh and calf. Two stablemen scurried forward and levered him the rest of the fall from the saddle, unhooking his heel from the stirrup and alleviating the strain.

"My lord," one murmured, hoisting him upright. "You're ice cold. My lord!" he demanded, and experimentally slapped Guy's cheek to the limits of propriety.

Cold. Ice cold. Blazing, painful awareness.

"Thank you," Guy murmured, supporting his own weight. "I thank you."

He made it to his bedroom unassisted and aware at all times of a biting, empty loneliness. It began to taste fresher the more steps he took. More easily ingested.

She stepped out from behind the four poster bed, raising one elegant eyebrow. "You're going to stop believing in me now, aren't you?"

"It had crossed my mind," he said, his voice croaking as he walked to meet her. He tried to be shocked, knowing he probably should be, but he wasn't.

Standing toe to toe, he stared down into her brown eyes. "Maybe you're the devil."

"Maybe I am," she agreed, the unlined softness of her face showing her carefree thoughts. "Maybe I should go," she added teasingly.

"And leave me," he whispered. Circling her, he undid his jacket and let it fall to the ground, peeling his shirt off and dropping it as he reached the bath. He stooped to undo his boots, unlacing his trousers and grimacing as he found dried blood trickling from his forearm down to his elbow. Taking off his underwear, he didn't need to look behind him to know if she was there or not. He heard a shallow intake of breath and the steps she took towards him over the wooden floor. Sliding into the water, he let it soak into his bones and soothe his aches. Closing his eyes, he knew that she was still watching him, hungrily. He submerged and let the heated water cocoon him from the world.

"She never watched me like that," he announced as he broke the surface, the stinging water melting into his eyes.

"She might have," she said. She was perched on the chair, her eyes trained not on his face, but on the water that trickled down his chest. "If you'd ever bothered to wonder how often she tricked you, or manipulated you. You'd have known. She was always watching you, just as you were watching her."

"I was not being manipulated." Slipping back down under the surface, he watched her flimsy form take on a ghostly quiver through the ripples. "I was not being watched," he added through clenched teeth, until his lungs ached from air loss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lay Down**

**Chapter Four**

"It's been days," she said mildly.

In the quiet of dawn, he'd remained still, feigning sleep for the benefit of his own fevered imagination.

Now she spoke, and her presence solidified like a shock of heat in the bed, beside him. His eyes opened in defeat, and he looked at her.

She had the look of defeat about her, too. Her eyes were narrowed as they had been on what would once have been their wedding day; that look had cut him too deep to be forgotten, as had the widening relief as it fuelled her escape from him at the altar. But her downturned mouth spoke of a willingness to be compassionate, always. He took her hand and felt an answering grasp in response.

Guy blinked himself awake. The rest of him too lethargic to move. He had sunk himself into this unlit room, in this unclean bed, and not emerged since his attempts at drowning himself in a chilling bath had produced only fever and sickness. He raised his eyebrows at her quizzically.

"You haven't risen," she said. "It won't do," she teased, half-heartedly.

He exhaled heavily through his nostrils, and his eyes slipped shut.

He felt her warmth fall fluidly to his chest, conscious of barely more weight than the clasp of her small hand. He imagined a tendril of hair at his lips, spilling her scent into his face. He imagined her right hand curling onto his chest, her face pressed to his throat, a contented sigh. He imagined himself into longed-for oblivion. But it was not to be.

"What should I do, hmm?" she murmured, and her breath came unbidden against his chest. He shifted his own ideas of her shape to accommodate this; he moved her wrist to his throat and listened.

"What do you want from me?" she mused, then, in a heartbeat, answered her own questions. "I know," she said with conviction, a harder edge to her voice. "You want my forgiveness. You want my submission to your will. You want my body next to yours, pliant and obedient and subsumed in this filthy bed with you, until we both rot together into a skeletal soup. Just spectres. Shadows of your delusional happy ending."

"I don't," he protested, in a voice not his own: weak and thick from disuse.

"You want this dream for as long as you can maintain it, and when it ends, all the better for you. Because you can't keep up the strength to live with yourself."

He sat up miserably, struggling against the cling of his blanket. "Don't, I...do. I want it over. I want it finished."

"Prove it," she whispered.

The room's chill came at him from underfoot and suddenly she was standing at the far end of the room, and he was up, the blanket on the floor and his trunk dragged from its dusty station across the floorboards to the centre.

"The finish," he declared. "The finish line. Not a comfort, not forgiveness—I don't need that from you!" he snarled at her. He threw linens and necessities into the trunk. "You are not meant to be here, it's not what you would have wanted. You said you'd rather die than be with me."

"Yes," she said simply.

"Yes," he agreed savagely. "So that's where we're going. Right back to beginning. Or the end. Depending on whether you are in my mind or your own."

She giggled, hysterically, almost despite herself. Guy looked at her with a sudden contempt. "Don't mock me," he warned.

"I don't," she hastened to reply, silencing her own mirth. "I...thank you, Guy."

He shut the trunk, stripped himself of his stinking shirt and went to unbolt the door, intent on hot water and a saddled horse. She watched him, smiled broadly, her entire visage at once illuminated with the unexpected certainty of her own happy ending.


End file.
